Up the Hill and Over eBook

But it was a long time before she found the strength
to pick it up. When she did, she read it quietly
to the end with its scrawled “H.”
Then she read it over again, word by word. Her
expression was one of terror and amaze.

When she had finished she looked up, over the pleasant
garden, with blank eyes. Her face was ashen.

“He came,” she said aloud. “He
came! But—­what did she tell him
when he came?”

The garden had no answer to the question. Somewhere
could be heard a girl’s laugh and the sharp
bark of a protesting puppy. Mary Coombe drew
her hand across her eyes as if to clear them of film
and, trying to rise, slipped down beside the elm-tree
seat, a soft blot of whiteness on the green.

They found her there when they had finished washing
the puppy, but though she came quickly to herself
under their eager ministrations, she would not tell
them what had caused her sudden illness. To all
their questionings she answered pettishly, “Nothing!
Nothing but the heat.”

CHAPTER XXI

When a man of thirty-five has at last shaken himself
free from the burden of an unhappy love affair, he
is not particularly disposed to welcome an emotional
reawakening. He knows the pains and penalties
too well; the fire of Spring, he has learned, can
burn as well as brighten. Callandar thought that
he had done with love, and a growing suspicion that
love had not done with him brought little less than
panic. Upon the occasion of Willits’ second
visit he had begun to realise his danger and the professor
never guessed how nearly he had persuaded him to leave
Coombe. Some deep instinct was urging flight,
but the impulse had come just a little bit too late.
He could not go, because he wanted so very much to
stay.

After Willits’ departure he had deliberately
tested himself. For five days he did not try
to see Esther and upon the sixth he realised finally
that seeing Esther was the only thing that mattered.
Then had come the short interview under the elm tree—­an
interview which had shown him a new Esther, demure,
adorable, with eyes which refused to look at him.
He had come away from that meeting with a new pulse
beating in his heart.

To doubt was no longer possible. He loved her.

But she? Lovers are proverbially modest, but
their modesty is fear disguised. They hope so
much that they fear to hope at all; it seemed impossible
to Callandar that Esther should not love him and yet
it seemed impossible that she should. Only one
thing emerged clearly from the chaos—­the
immediate necessity of finding out.

“Why don’t you ask her?” demanded
Common Sense in that wearily patient way with which
Common Sense meets the vagaries of lovers.

“But it is so soon,” objected Caution,
while Fear, aroused, whispered, “Be careful.
Give her time.” Even Mrs. Grundy made herself
heard with her usual references to what people, represented
by Mrs. Sykes, might say, adding scornfully, “Why,
you haven’t met the girl’s mother yet.
Don’t make a fool of yourself, please.”